And eyes grew dim with watching,
That yet refused to weep;

And years were spent in hoping
For tidings from the deep.

It grew an old man's story
Upon their native shore-

God rest those souls in heaven

Who met on earth no more!

The above was correctly copied from a newspaper-clipping pasted in my scrap-book many years ago. I have since discovered the same poem in the Literary Gazette for 1833, where it first appeared. The verses are there entitled "The Lost Ship," and bear the well-known initials L. E. L., consequently they are Mrs. Maclean's. How or why the newspaper scribe could clip off both head and tail, and transform the thing into anonymous "Lines from an old volume," is difficult to understand. It illustrates a system much in vogue, but which is unworthy of editors, who profess to correct the public taste. Wherever an author's piece goes by selection, his signature should follow by right.

LIGHT was the maid, in light array'd, for light to her was

given,

From light she flew, and lightly, too, she'll light again in

heaven;

No northern light was e'er so bright, no light could e'er be

brighter,

Her light-drawn sigh pass'd lightly by, as light as air, and lighter.

The lights divine that lightly shine, in yonder lighten'd

skies,

Can ne'er excel the light that fell like lightning from her

eyes,

She lightly moved by all beloved, a light and fairy elf; Light was her frame, and light her name, for she was Light itself!

HELLVELLYN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BORN IN EDINBURGH, AUGUST 15,
1771, DIED AT ABBOTSFORD, SEPTEMBER 21,
1832, BURIED IN DRYBURGH ABBEY.

I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and

wide;

All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,

One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,

When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.

G

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber; When the wind waved his garment how oft didst thou

start;

How many long days and long nights didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, oh! was it meet that—no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him,
Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:

Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming;
Far down the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,

Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,

In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, (Mr. Charles Gough, of Manchester), perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.